The bar was closing when I came downstairs.  Martin stared at me dully.

“I’m going for a moonlight ramble,” I explained.  “Will any one be up to let me in or should you prefer to give me the key of the side door?”

“Never locked,” was the laconic reply; “come in when you like.”

To a town-dweller, such a piece of information must have sounded alarming, but knowing something of the ways of these country communities, it did not greatly surprise me; and bidding the landlord “good night,” I set out.

The false move made by Dr. Damar Greefe had advanced the inquiry further than any unaided endeavors of mine could well have done.  Clearly enough, the Eurasian regarded my presence as inimical to his safety.  In admitting so much he had admitted guilt of some kind.  In fact I felt assured that he was determined at all costs to prevent my visiting Friar’s Park.

Having failed in his unmistakable endeavor to remove me entirely—­for so I construed the Nubian’s instructions—­he would undoubtedly recognize that the game was up.  He was clearly a desperate man and I recognized that the only hope I had of foiling him lay in acting with despatch.

This was a perfect night with never a cloud to mar the blue serenity of the sky, but in spite of its beauty I was more than ever conscious of that sense of loneliness and desolateness which seemed to be the most marked characteristic of the country hereabouts.  I met never a soul upon the highway, nor indeed did I encounter any evidence of life whatever, until, turning into a narrow lane which would bring me to that road in the valley upon which stood the deserted lodge belonging to the Bell House, an owl hooted in the trees above my head.

Keenly alert to the possibility that my movements might be watched, I paused, wondering if the sound—­which had proceeded from a low bough directly above me—­had really been made by an owl or by a human mimic.  For the hoot of an owl, being easy to imitate, is much favored for signaling purposes.  Taking my electric torch from my pocket, I directed its ray upward into the close foliage of the oak tree; whereupon, with a ghostly fluttering of dark wings, an owl flew away.

I proceeded confidently down the sloping road amid a silence so intense that my steps seemed to create a positive clamor.  Coming to the corner, I looked along to the left where the lane, alternate patches of silver and ebony, showed deserted as far as I could see.  This was the direction of the gate of the Bell House, and the road, which sloped gently downwards on that side rose in a rather sharper activity on my right.  It was at this point that I had mistaken the way on my first journey to Friar’s Park.

Therefore I proceeded to the right, seeking the entrance, which I was convinced I should find somewhere within the next two hundred yards.  The lane inclined gently leftward, and presently, as I had anticipated, I came upon a lodge, overgrown with ivy and but partly visible beyond the gates which barred the end of the drive.